Screwed (13 page)

“When the baby’s older, old enough to understand, if he wants to find me, then I would love to meet him. But I don’t want to confuse him when he’s little. That wouldn’t be fair.” Not knowing what the bean was, Grace kept switching genders when she talked about it.

At the moment, Grace felt most comfortable with a semi-open adoption. Meeting potential parents, getting a feel for them, was important. However, once she made that decision, Grace didn’t want to spend the next eighteen years hovering on the fringes of her baby’s life. That would make it impossible for her to move on and make a life for herself, which she so desperately wanted to start doing.

Janet slid a large black loose-leaf notebook across the desk. A snapshot and a two-paragraph summary seemed more suited to finding a date than selecting a mother and father for her baby, but what was the alternative? These girls had to start somewhere.

“Look through this book and see if any of the couples jump out at you. Check in with me at the end of the week and we can set up another meeting.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Olson.” Grace picked up the book and held it close to her. Inside this notebook might be the people who would become her baby’s family. While she hadn’t ever seriously thought about keeping the bean, it was still strange to be taking this giant step closer to giving it up.

“There
is
one more thing. Although you’ve said the father has made it clear that he wants nothing to do with this child, we’re going to need that in writing. If he doesn’t sign away his parental rights, as you will be doing, there is always the danger that he could change his mind and sue to gain custody.”

That disastrous scenario had occurred not long after Janet had started Children First, when a seventeen-year-old girl showed up, desperate to find someone to adopt her twins. She claimed not to know who the father was — a drunken one-night stand at a Pink Floyd concert — and Janet had let it go at that. Well acquainted with the hazards of a night of partying, she had no desire to torture the girl by interrogating her about the whereabouts of the dirtbag who had impregnated her. Three days before the twins’ first birthday a young man, reeking of pot and an apparent aversion to basic hygiene, stormed into her office, demanding to know where his children were. It had been an ugly court battle, some sleazy ACLU-type ranting about fathers’ rights while his client sat like a statue, eyes bloodshot, clearly stoned out of his mind. And while the adoptive parents had ultimately prevailed, it was only after much heartache and the delivery of a big, fat envelope of cash to the on-again, off-again father. From that day forward, Janet tracked down every sperm donor, and if her private detective couldn’t find the bum or he refused to sign the paper, Janet refused to take on the client. It killed her to turn away a desperate girl, all the more tragic because the asshole who had gotten her into this mess wasn’t stepping up, but she had a business to run, and she couldn’t risk some lunatic coming out of the woodwork in search of his baby or, more likely, a quick payoff.

“I think I can get that, as long as no one finds out about it. Nick, the father, he never told his parents, and not that I care about him, but I don’t see the point in ruining his life too.” Why she felt the need to lighten Nick’s burden, Grace didn’t know, after the way he’d used her, but wrecking his life wouldn’t do anything to repair hers, even if it made her feel better.

“It’s just an insurance policy. That piece of paper will never see the light of day,” Janet promised.

“Okay.” That meant Grace would actually have to talk to Nick. She hadn’t spoken a word to him since that day on the lake when she first told him about the bean. At the thought of seeing him again, her heart pounded. Maybe she would take Jennifer with her for backup.

“And if he gives you any trouble, just remind him that if he doesn’t sign it, no one will adopt the child, and he’ll be on the hook for the next eighteen years. That little secret won’t be so easy to hide from his parents.” Janet had plenty of experience dealing with reluctant fathers who were wavering when it came time to step up to the plate. Teenage boys were all strut and testosterone, right up until the moment they actually had to behave like grown men, and then most of them turned into stuttering little boys.

“That should do it,” Grace said, not sure she had the strength to face him again, but knowing she had no choice, and well aware that she needed to stand up to him if she was ever going to come out of this nightmare in one piece.

“If you like, you can set up a meeting here, and I can explain everything to him myself. I know how hard this must be for you.” It was easy to see Grace’s anxiety as she chewed ferociously on her lower lip. She was a ball of nerves, and that couldn’t be good for the baby.

“Let me think about it,” said Grace.

“Just remember what’s important. Now is the time for you to think about what’s best for you and the baby. Try not to stress about the details. That’s why
I’m
here.” Janet stood. “I’ll get the paperwork together, and I look forward to hearing from you.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Olson,” Grace said.

“It’s been a pleasure, Grace, Mrs. Teitelbaum. You’re going through a difficult time, but in that book is the light at the end of your tunnel. I know it.” Shaking both their hands, she showed them out through a door at the back of her office that led directly into the hallway. “We like to give our clients as much privacy as possible,” she explained.

“We’ll be in touch after Grace has had a chance to look through your notebook. You’ve been a great help. Those worry wrinkles in Grace’s forehead are starting to go away already.”

Helen had been concerned that having had no mothering experience herself, she couldn’t do much for Grace other than providing nutritious meals and a warm bed. But helping Grace find a safe, loving home for this baby was no small thing, and Helen was sure Grace had made the right decision. The process promised to be a little thorny, but it would all be over in April.

“Why don’t you take that upstairs and have a look on your own. When you’re ready, if you want to talk, come find me.” Unable to imagine being pregnant, let alone being pregnant and knowing that you weren’t going to make a life with the child growing inside you, Helen was treading lightly. Giving Grace plenty of space and no unsolicited advice seemed the best course. Clearly this girl had a good head on her shoulders, and if she wanted to discuss anything, she knew Helen was waiting.

Flipping through a few pages, Grace felt like she was looking at an L. L. Bean catalog, except they weren’t selling flannel shirts and corduroy pants with ducks on them — they were selling the couples wearing them. She didn’t know how she was going to figure out who would love her baby more than anything in the world, who could give it the best life. Maybe an artsy couple living in Seattle who owned a coffee roasting company and painted murals on the sides of old buildings in their free time, or a nuclear physicist and his novelist wife who lived outside Boston. The only thing Grace knew for sure was that she didn’t want the doctor and the lawyer living in Chicago. Grace’s mother had worked throughout her childhood, even though they didn’t need the money. As Betsy had explained to Grace when she was three, an unfulfilled woman made for an unhappy mother, and Grace didn’t want an unhappy mother, did she? Fulfillment, for Betsy at least, could not be found in endless visits to the playground, afternoons baking cookies, and reading
The Cat in the Hat
for the hundredth time. Not that Grace had any clue what Betsy was talking about at the time, other than the fact that her mother apparently didn’t want to spend time with her. Grace decided only to consider couples with wives who stayed at home. If these women wanted her baby, they had better be willing to change diapers and push a stroller, all day long. Superwomen who wanted to have it all need not apply.

In order to do this search properly, Grace knew she needed to be systematic, so she turned back to the very beginning. Couple Number One: Rebecca and Michael Miller lived in suburban Philadelphia. Photographed standing in front of what must be their house, a large brick colonial, the Millers could have been models posing for a magazine shoot. Tiny, with huge green eyes and long black hair, Rebecca looked like a doll next to her husband, who, according to the bio, was six foot four. What a waste of DNA that these two specimens couldn’t reproduce. They had met at Princeton as undergraduates and went on to get matching MBAs at Wharton. Working mothers were off limits, but no, Rebecca had worked for five years, then given up the fast lane to pursue baby-making full time, and even when that venture failed to yield any results, she had decided not to return to the workplace. Michael was a successful investment banker, and Rebecca volunteered as a reading and math tutor in the neighborhood public school. These two were so perfect, there had to be some fatal flaw lurking beneath the surface — a drinking problem, a family history of insanity. But Grace didn’t know how she would ever be able to find out. Running her fingers over the photograph, Grace stared into the picture, trying to imagine what it would be like to turn the bean over to these two overachievers.

Couple Number Two:. Two plastic surgeons who were active volunteers with Doctors Without Borders. What were they going to do with a baby? Stick it in a carry-on and drag it along on their life-saving missions all over the world? Admirable, Grace thought, but unacceptable.

Couple Number Three: John Pell was a history professor, and his wife taught French literature at a small college in a little town in Vermont. The picture of the Pell’s house covered with snow and Christmas lights was a picture postcard of an idyllic life. There was a nursery school on campus for faculty children, and the Pells were active in an organic food cooperative. Without a doubt, the baby would be well cared for and well fed. But while the setting sounded like paradise, and Sara Pell only taught one class, she was working on a book and was a regular contributor to a literary magazine. It sounded time-consuming, despite the fact that she was able to work out of her house most of the time. While Grace didn’t begrudge a woman’s need to follow her own dreams, and she knew it was perhaps too much to expect a mother to be satisfied solely with her mothering duties, she wanted an adoptive mother who was at least a little less busy than Sara Pell seemed to be. On top of that, Thomas Pell’s mother lived with them, and while Grace had nothing against senior citizens or extended family, there was something about the elder Mrs. Pell, who appeared in the photo sitting between her son and daughter-in-law, hand protectively resting on her son’s knee, that made Grace uncomfortable.

Couple Number Four lived in Miami. Carlos Perez had been born in Cuba but escaped to Florida with his family as a child. He had met Margaret, his wife of ten years, when she was a senior at the University of Florida and he was a dental student. They had married immediately after she graduated from college, and although Margaret worked as a copywriter at an advertising agency, she planned on quitting as soon as she had a child. Margaret had majored in child psychology and minored in English, so she would know how to deal with temper tantrums and separation anxiety, and someday she would be able to help the bean with his college essays. They lived in a sprawling Mediterranean house surrounded by orange trees, and there was already a playset with swings and a slide set up in the backyard. This pair had possibilities, and the bean would have perfect teeth.

A dozen couples later, Grace’s head swirled with images of devoted spouses with perfect lives, except for their inability to make a baby. How sad that all these women in their thirties with doting husbands, large bank accounts, and too many extra bedrooms were unable to carry a child, but teenagers having random sex in back seats and on beaches seemed to be so ridiculously fertile. Life was definitely not fair, at either end of the spectrum.

In spite of the glowing resumes and magazine-perfect photographs of each and every couple, Grace couldn’t stop thinking about Couple Number One. There was something about the Millers that was both familiar and comforting. Was it because Rebecca’s dark hair and green eyes unconsciously reminded Grace of herself, or that Michael looked so solid and grownup, yet gentle and kind the way he stood in the photo, his arm protectively around his wife’s shoulders? Would they ever tell their daughter that she was stupid or that they regretted having her? Would they kick the bean out of the house if she broke the rules or threatened the family’s honor? There was no way to know, but Grace had a feeling these two people wouldn’t be capable of such malice. At least she hoped they wouldn’t be.

After eighteen weeks and no whispers, Grace had almost forgotten to worry about the shit hitting the fan when her baby bump bumped. Wearing sweatpants and oversized sweatshirts Charlie had given her, collected from exotic universities all over the world, Grace was playing the role of hardcore senior who was too busy writing college essays and studying for her AP classes to waste time on grooming. So far she’d done a good job camouflaging her slowly ballooning figure, because no one had uttered a word — not a single comment from anyone about one too many Hershey bars, or too much reading and not enough running — and thankfully seniors didn’t have to take gym class. Either her disguise was working, or Jennifer and the entire student body were being incredibly diplomatic. Not a likely scenario.

But in the third day of her nineteenth week, Grace was in the bathroom before school, where she was spending an inordinate amount of time these days, when her big fat ship hit the iceberg. A break-off herd of girls from Nick’s popular planet ambled in. The school day hadn’t yet begun, but it was time to reapply their eyeliner and lip gloss before first period. Crowding each other in front of the mirror, each certain that she was by far the hottest girl in school, they pretended that they actually liked each other.

Awesome Girl A: “So did you hear the news?”

Awesome Girl B: “What news?”

Awesome Girl A: “Grace Warren is up the duff.”

In a panic, Grace lifted her feet off the tile floor and held her breath. If they discovered she was in the bathroom, they might strip her down to see if it was just gossip or she was in fact packing a little person. The single blessing of obscurity in this whole unblessed event had just blown up in her face.

Awesome Girl C: “What? That’s impossible. Straight-A, so-perfect-her-shit-doesn’t-stink Grace Warren?”

Awesome Girl A: “That’s the one.”

Awesome Girl C: “No way. Her mother practically runs our church. She’s the parent adviser for this class the pastor runs teaching kids how to keep it in their pants. Grace won’t be spreading her legs until her wedding night, if then.”

Awesome Girl D: “So who’s the babydaddy?”

Awesome Girl A: “I heard it was some guy she met at church camp. He popped her cherry during Bible study.”

Awesome Girl B: “Someone’s definitely yanking your chain.”

Awesome Girl A: “Maybe. Either way, we’ll know soon enough. It’s not like she’ll be able to suck it in for nine months.”

Awesome Girl D: “She
has
been dressing like a chunky rug muncher lately. I thought maybe she was practicing for one of those women’s colleges.”

Awesome Girl A: “Why don’t you just ask her?”

Awesome Girl D: “Why don’t
you
?”

Awesome Girl A: “Because I don’t give a shit if she fucked every member of the chess club and is hauling around triplets.”

Awesome Girl B: “If she’s got a kid in there, it had to be an immaculate conception. No one but God could be porking Warren.”

Awesome Girl C: “Whatever.”

Awesome Girl C didn’t give a rat’s ass what a charter member of the geek squad was up to when she wasn’t changing the batteries in her calculator. In her thousand-friend Facebook universe, high school was for looking good, getting hammered, and hooking up, not gossiping about losers who sat at the front of the class with their lips permanently attached to some teacher’s fat ass.

When Grace didn’t think she could hold it in a second longer, the bell rang and the demons posing as high school girls left. Burying her face in Charlie’s sweatshirt, she didn’t move. The graffiti-decorated stall — it was only a matter of days until her life story figured prominently in the scribbles on the metal walls surrounding her — felt like the only safe place in the building. Sitting on the toilet, Grace wept bitter tears for the loss of her dignity, the loss of her family, the loss of her flat stomach, and most of all, for the loss of the person she used to be and knew she could never be again.

The late bell rang, and Grace sat up, blowing her nose on a piece of toilet paper. Who had ratted her out? Jennifer had a big mouth, but Grace knew she would sooner cut out her own tongue than sell out her best friend. Nick? No way. His name hadn’t come up once in the bathroom conversation, and except for Mrs. T., the doctors, and her parents (who would deny she was pregnant if she gave birth on the altar during Sunday services), nobody else was in the loop. It had to be the sweats. Stupidly believing that miles of cotton fleece would be the perfect smokescreen, Grace had unwittingly outed herself. Coming out of the stall, she examined herself in the lipstick-streaked mirror hanging on the tile wall. That was definitely it. She started to laugh at her reflection, this person she hardly recognized anymore, wondering why Jennifer or Charlie or Mrs. T. hadn’t said anything. Unlike her parents, who had no qualms about telling her exactly what they thought of her, those three people loved her so much that either they didn’t see the Jabba the Hutt she had become, or if they did, they had the good sense to know that pointing out a blemish that couldn’t be covered with Maybelline Cover Stick would be at best a worthless exercise, and at worst, cruel. But she couldn’t figure out where the Bible camp fuck buddy had come from.

Not sure what to do next, Grace stared at the floor, as if the answer could be found in the grimy gray tiles. Spending the day in the girls’ bathroom wouldn’t solve any of her problems, and she couldn’t hide out in a stall until the baby was born. Retrieving her backpack from the hook behind the door, Grace took one last look in the mirror and went off to class, or war, or whatever the day would bring.

“Come in, Grace. You’re late. Where’s your pass?” Miss Hawkins stood in front of the whiteboard, marker poised.

She had been late to class before, and no one had ever asked her for a pass. If a student like Grace was tardy, there had to be a good reason, so a note from the office would be a waste of paperwork. “I’m sorry, Miss Hawkins, I don’t have one. I was in the restroom.” Twenty-three snickers combined into a single deafening guffaw.

“Whatever. Take your seat, and next time try to take care of your business at home.”

Resuming her lecture, Miss Hawkins droned on about Skinner boxes and operant conditioning. Collapsing into her seat accompanied by a second round of sniggering, Grace dug out her notebook and pen and pretended to listen to her teacher. If her not-so-delicate condition was obvious to her classmates, didn’t that mean that the teachers, who were certainly smarter and less self-absorbed than their students, must also have solved the whodunit … or whodidher? That would explain the unprecedented request for a late pass and the snide comment.

The bell finally rang, ending Miss Hawkins’s attack on video games as modern examples of Skinner boxes, destroying America’s youth and threatening to become the one-way ticket to last place for the United States. “For your sake, for the sake of this country, you people need to rethink your priorities. Our futures depend on it. Check the syllabus for your homework. Class dismissed.”

Miss Hawkins turned to erase her whiteboard in preparation for the next round of fertile young minds. It was only 8:30
A.M
., and she didn’t know how she was going to make it through the morning, let alone the five years she had to endure until she could retire with a pension.

“Boooo!”

“You just haven’t found the right joystick, Miss Hawkins.”

“Don’t be such a noob!”

“If you’d ever fragged someone, you wouldn’t be saying that.”

“This class is a total wankfest!”

Slamming her hand down hard on her desk, Miss Hawkins turned to face the class and spoke through gritted teeth. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. Such disrespect didn’t exist twenty-five years ago. You’re a bunch of animals. Not worth my time. Get out of my classroom.”

Too curious to leave it alone, and also wanting to apologize to Miss Hawkins for being late — she was still the good girl, no matter what her uterus said — Grace stopped in front of Miss Hawkins’s desk. “I’m sorry I was late this morning. I had the start of a migraine or something. It won’t happen again.”

“I hope not. You and your associates need to get your collective acts together. You’re seniors, not a bunch of wide-eyed freshmen who don’t know up from down. It’s so disappointing for us as teachers to see young people throwing their lives away like empty soda cans. Squandering one’s gifts is an unforgivable sin. Do you understand that, Grace?” Miss Hawkins stared not at Grace’s face, but at her stomach. Maybe she was reading Moscow Institute of Physics and Technology, or maybe she was trying to decide if Grace looked any fatter than she’d looked a few weeks earlier.

Close to melting down, Grace just nodded. Second period students began trickling in, and Grace blinked back her tears. Another bell rang, but instead of going to her next class, Grace lumbered towards the office. Having inadvertently mutated into one of those disappointing young people the teachers were wasting their precious time on, Grace knew she would need a late pass to get into AP English.